Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/160

132 Its spear toward the reddening West!

For me the bough and the breeze,

The sap unseen, and the glint

Of light on the dew-wet branches,

The hiding shadows, the hint

Of the soul of mysteries.

You may sound the sources of life,

And prate of its aim and scope;

You may search with your chilly knife

Through the broken heart of hope.

But for me the love-sweet breath,

And the warm, white bosom heaving,

And never a thought of death,

And only the bliss of living.

TO A YOUNG POET

"WHEN THE TRUE POET COMES"

the true poet comes, how shall we know him?

By what clear token; manners, language, dress?

Or will a voice from heaven speak and show him—

Him the swift healer of the earth's distress?